


Duty over Devotion (Dance for a Crimson Flower)

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Crimson Flower Route, Dancing, F/M, Ghosts, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Post-War, Prompt Fic, dorothea is the ultimate wing woman... a queen...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: There is a rumour that circles the Adrestian Palace. That a vengeful spirit looms over the monastery, watching over the late emperor of the Adrestian Empire. And late on halloween night, it is said that he is visible on the balcony overlooking the Imperial captial, forever waiting to dance with his liege once again...A special upload for Edelbert Events' Trick or Treat!
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Duty over Devotion (Dance for a Crimson Flower)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YsaX64](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YsaX64/gifts).



> happy halloween! this was my prompt from the lovely ysa who wanted to see hubert and edelgard wandering as ghosts on halloween night and having their own fun. it's a little off topic, but i tried. i hope y'all enjoy!  
> i was really inspired by those bardcore covers on yt and a friend helped with giving me the insp and push to write so shout out to her!
> 
> also the thought of edelgard seeing a dude with a pog emoji on his phone or smth and turning to hubert like "what is a lit pog, hubert?" and hubert explaining it to her makes me lose my shit.
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading!

The minister stands in the shadows, watching as his liege dances with another high status nobleman. He feels his cold, dark little heart tense inside his chest and clutch as she moves with measured steps and effortless grace. For such a painful sight, his reaction is nothing more than a sharp gaze upon her back. 

Hubert knows that he may never have her. Not once, not even for a second. The only place he may ever possibly have her is in his dreams, but those are few and far between. These days, most of his rest comes with lingering nightmares.

It is a horrible romance to be in—if one can call it that. It is an unrequited mess with no end. For when he seems to admit that she would never look his way, never feel the same tenderness that he feels for her, the heartache only worsens. It is like his heart is in her gauntlet, and her grasp around the muscle tightens with every beat. 

The nobleman moves jauntily, most certainly charmed that the Emperor agreed to a dance with him, and it only makes the frown on Hubert’s lips deepen.

(For any other man, there is little cause to frown or appear so dour at sight of his liege dancing; but for Hubert sourness and cynicism is natural and apt.)

“She is lovely, is she not?” 

Dorothea appears at his elbow, deftly moving her hand through the loop of his inner arm. She was invited to chat up the aristocracy once again, as was all of the Emperor’s army. Edelgard had been adamant on inviting Dorothea, on word that it would improve the class relations across Adrestia. Lowly, she had teasingly said the songstress might use the opportunity to find that wealthy lifelong partner she needs to secure a comfortable future. 

“Do not bait me with idle compliments.” Hubert warns.

Dorothea rolls her eyes. “Melodramatic as ever. I thought  _ I _ was the diva, not you.”

Hubert keeps his eyes upon the Emperor. Her crimson ballgown spreads in a perfect circle, as the nobleman twirls her much too brashly for Hubert’s liking. “You are.”

“Then quit with the dramatics.” The opera star sighs. “The first time I see you out of an office Hubie and you’re still concerned with her.”

“She is my liege—“

“‘ _ My purpose in life, my everything, such a fool like you would never understand Dorothea.’ _ ” She mocks his tone before shaking her head. Hubert finally looks at her, seeing a frown on her red lips and a glass of wine in her hand. “Would you give it a rest Hubie? It’s supposed to be a night of  _ celebration _ , not mourning.”

“I am not mourning.”

“You’re in all black and refuse to dance. You’re mourning for something that never happened.” Dorothea says. “I’m telling you, this is not healthy; you need to—“

Dorothea’s words fall deaf upon his ears. In a half circle, the nobleman’s back is to him and Edelgard meets his gaze. Something in her eyes, his senses sharpened to his liege’s every whim and desire, tells him that she’s tired of dancing with this clown. 

She did say that to him as he carefully wound her hair into a taut chignon. That she would make it known when she tired of a dance partner.

Dorothea must see it too, for her lecture stops. She pulls on his arm, moving the two of them away to the orchestra. She leaves his elbow to speak ever-so-sweetly to the conductor to finish the dance. Edelgard’s gaze quickly turns from his and back to her partner’s as he turns back to her.

And that ache, that fire, only burns brighter in his chest; as if that iron gauntlet clenches his fragile black heart in her liberating hand. 

He wants her love, not just her attention. And he wants her affections, what little she has of them, and her devotion, and the swelling sea she has of that. She might have whatever she wants from him—blood, body, soul—he will give it happily, if it just means that she will be his for a moment. 

He is not a man of gods or religion but she wanted repentance for all his sins, he would give them. He would kneel before her, stripped of dignity and honour, just if would reach out and let her holy fingertips graze his hand. To even think of holding it for a second. 

The song ends, half of the guests unexpectedly applauding as the next one begins. His eyes do not stray from Edelgard, as another nobleman, knight, or no-faced man asks for her hand for the next dance. 

Heartache comes again. 

“You should have asked for this dance. It was a golden opportunity.” Dorothea’s voice breaks through his deafening ache.

“It would not be appropriate. I am her minister, nothing more.”

Dorothea rolls those jade eyes again. “Shouldn’t you be off charming suitors into stupors?” He asks. 

“I lost Ferdie and the new Margrave Gautier a few moments ago. I intend to keep it that way.” She says. “Too much dancing and I will have blisters on my feet.”

Hubert stays silent. His eyes follow Edelgard. Another sideways glance. A nearby pageboy is staring at him.

“I told the servants to watch for your cues.” She says. “In case the Emperor would like a rest from dancing.”

“You have my thanks.” He says softly, he continues to watch Edelgard. 

“So Hubie, are you to stand watch like a—“

“Do  _ not _ say babysitter."

“ _ Guard dog _ all night?” That one is more annoying. Dorothea gives him a coy smile as he sighs heavily through his nose. “Or will you dance once? I’m certain Bernie would love a dance with you.”

“Do not give the poor countess a heart attack.” He chastises. “She’d rather keel over than dance with me. It’s a miracle her Imperial Majesty could pull her from her study for the night.” 

“Oh don’t sound so gloomy, Hubie.” Dorothea says. “ _ I _ would happily dance with you.”

“I don’t recall asking you.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Dorothea pout. 

“Do you  _ really _ intend to stand here on watch for Edie all night?” She asks, as the music fades and the ballroom begins to erupt in applause. Another dance done. “And not even ask her?”

If he asked her, not only would he embarrass her, he’d shame her. The Emperor of all Fódlan, dancing with a simple minister?

Besides, why should she ever want to hold his hands? They are stained with others’ blood, with their regrets and follies. An Emperor, no, a liberator would never hold the hand of a monster who killed without hesitation. The divine should never touch the wretched. 

“It is my duty to.” He answers evenly.

“And it’s my duty to see you dance at least once. As a friend.”

_ We are not friends,  _ he thinks, and is about to vocalize it. But when he glances to her, Dorothea has slipped away from his arm to the orchestra, and speaking very closely with the conductor. 

The  _ Hymn of Hresvelg _ begins. One of his favourites, and the Emperor’s chosen waltz. It has long since been a tradition that she choose her partner for the dance. Yet as it begins, Edelgard leaves the ballroom and comes over to Hubert.

Dorothea offers a deep curtsey before happily greeting her emperor; Hubert gives a shallow bow and side steps, assuming that she wants to speak to the diva. “Edie, it’s beautiful—“

Hubert can see the line up of men waiting to speak to Edelgard. To ask for the dance. Lucky; they may hold her close for a moment, dreaming of being hers. But Hubert does not dare dream for such a luxury, such a privilege. 

“Hubert, a moment.” The lilt in Edelgard’s voice is softer. Gentler. Something might be wrong. “Please excuse us Dorothea.”

“Of course, Edie.” Dorothea’s eyes flicker from hers to Hubert’s before turning on her heel and seeking out another friend to gossip with.

There is a second of silence as Edelgard takes a lofty stride towards him. The sound of her heel meeting the marble ballroom floor deafens him, suddenly the orchestra is nothing but a hum in the back of his head. All he can hear is his thudding heart; all he can see is the crimson flower before him, pointing to a coil of her auburn hair that has fallen out of place.

“Will you mend this?” She asks quietly.

“Of course.” The minister turns her into the shadows, out to the balcony that overlooks the Imperial city. The lights below look reminiscent of stars, as if the sky never ends. One of Edelgard’s pins must have come loose when she was dancing, for her chignon droops down her neck, and a coil of pearly-brown hair falls onto the shoulder of her silk gown. 

(In the past months, her hair has begun to turn brown again. A happy change, but Hubert knows that in a few short years it will turn grey, then silver and finally back to white.)

“Are you enjoying yourself?” She asks as he gently brushes the coil back. He loosens another pin in her hair, in hopes that he can slip the stray lock back. 

“As much as I am allowed.”

“Do not lie. You look positively dour Hubert… And almost ready to curse out Dorothea.”

“You already know that I am not a fan of dances, nor cotillions or even balls. Frivolity is lost on me.” His eyes flicker to hers and for a second, he sees discontent in them. “But—“

Her eyes flicker up to his. He holds her gaze for a second, tucking the stray lock back into her chignon. “I take great joy in seeing my liege dance with her subjects.”

Edelgard blinks softly, the most tender thanks she gives him. “I have not seen my minister dance with a single person tonight.” She says. “I had thought Dorothea would drag you out to the floor.”

He scoffs, his hands slipping behind his back. “As if I could keep time with a diva.”

“Do not speak of yourself so meanly. You are a wonderful dancer.” Edelgard says turning to the city of stars below. She doesn’t look back. “ _ Were _ , I suppose. I do hope your feet are not glued to the floor all night.”

The pesky coil slips from her chignon again and she tsks. Hubert comes to her side. “They will be. If only to stop those grovelling noblemen who wish for a moment of your time.” He says lowly. “I would never forgive myself if I could prevent any discomfort to befall you.”

His hand hesitates to tuck the lock away. Her eyes meet his for a moment and Hubert feels his entire body stiffen. Edelgard’s hand brushes his as she raises her hand to meet his and guides it to pull the hairpin from her head. 

“The clip was too taut.”

“My deepest apologies, Lady Edelgard.” He whispers.

Her hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders and down the curve of her back. She holds the clip out to him and Hubert gently pulls her bangs back, and secures them with the pin. 

“If I asked, would you dance with me, Hubert?” 

“I should not leave my post.”

“I could never feel such discomfort when dancing with you.” 

He wants to say yes to her. He wants to dance, and hold her tenderly, gently. And he wants to think for a second, just a moment, of what life would be like if she were his.

But he will  _ always _ pick duty over devotion.

“I could never risk your safety and well being, my liege.” His voice sounds off, too tight, too raw. 

“Even if I asked you as a friend and not your emperor?”

“A subject would never allow anything to befall his Emperor.” He says. “As would a friend.”

The glass doors of the ballroom swing open, the music of the orchestra pooling out as Dorothea’s voice pours from the palace.

“Dorothea would be most displeased if you missed her performance.” He says, watching as Edelgard glances from him. 

She moves her curtain of hair over her shoulder, falling gracefully along the silk of her gown. “Indeed. She would.” She turns her back from the city of never ending stars—from her devoted minister—and back to the ballroom and her attendants and her diplomacy. 

Always duty over devotion. 

* * *

There is a rumour that circles the Adrestian Palace. That a vengeful spirit looms over the monastery, watching over the late emperor of the empire. If the managers of the house are kind and courteous, he does not bother them. But if they are rude or speak any ill of the late emperor, they will be plagued by his spirit.

There’s been stories of the parlour being doused with alcohol and flameless fire burning the room to ash if she is called any foul name. Tales of the kitchen’s knives coming back and flying towards the staff should they critique her path. Once, a servant was tending to the statues along the great hall and cursed the late Emperor when the suits of armour fell apart on him; he was found on one of the halberds. 

Yet, the rumour does not end on the threat of this spirit’s rage. There is something more driven over it, than simple jealousy or annoyance. The legend goes that the spirit was once the Emperor’s most trusted confidant, unmatched in trust, ability and duty by any other of her friends or servants.

But he was a love lorn fellow. In the years that he served her, he loved her deeply, with more prudence over passion. He saw her dreams realized, and worked until his dying breath to secure a better future for all of Fódlan in her name.

And while he did not receive his happiness in that life, his spirit became a ghost, to serve his Emperor dutifully into the afterlife—once again choosing duty over devotion. But legend has it that curators and employees of the association that preserves the Adrestian Palace, that some have seen his spirit dancing through the old ballroom, with another. And that the sweetest music falls from the unused orchestra and the dance floor is alive with the sounds of laughter and music.

But that is all a silly legend... Or is it?

* * *

“And in the next wing, you shall see the Castle’s ballroom.” 

Hubert watches from the chandelier as the tour group floods with people. Amongst the dust—which he makes a note in his mind to add it to the checklist of a manager when they are not looking—he sees the group gather in the centre of the ballroom. Every year they become a little stranger; brighter hair, extravagant clothing and strange slates that flash whilst they make stranger faces. 

His eyes fall upon the tour guide, a lady in her late sixties. She speaks as though she’s bored to tears and Hubert briefly thinks about lighting the ancient torches in the ballroom to wake her up.

(He decides against it, instead levitating down from his spot on the chandelier and passing through the crowd of tourists. They shiver with his spirit passing through them as he examines how they look, how they stand and yawn with boredom. He can read a few thoughts, wondering when they hit the giftshop, if there’s a medieval torture room they can see, if the rumours about the vengeful spirit are true.)

He passes through the crowds and circles the dithering tour guide before standing beside her, hands behind his back. 

“Now, it is said that after the war, the Emperor herself hosted many a great ball as proof to try and unite the scattered lands of Fódlan.” The guide explains before yammering on about the Adrestian Palace’s architecture. “Lords and ladies and nobles from Leicester and Faerghus were invited to dance and discuss diplomacy in hopes of a better, brighter, Fódlan, the one we call our nation today.”

Edelgard, should she be free from her marble prison, would certainly pressure him towards a playful trick. Or at least he  _ thinks _ she would. In the latter years, his dutiful devotion, which had synchronized to her every thought, waned in favour of his own desires. 

Yet he had only once said he loved her. And that was on her deathbed, before her departed body, pitifully begging her to stay. 

“If you direct your attention to the front of the room, you will see a marble statue of her Imperial Majesty.” The guide says. This is the part of the tour that always embarrasses Hubert. “It was commissioned by at Leicester artist, by the order of his Imperial Grace, the minister of the Imperial Household, Hubert von Vestra.”

In a swift motion, the tourists’ heads turn to the marble statue that he commissioned from Ignatz Victor. It is Edelgard, perched upon her throne, gazing upon the crowds with both a scrupulous and kind gaze. She looks young, though the sculpture was done when she was a little past middle age and bordering on elderly due to her Crests. 

That is where she rests, her binding chains, tethering her to a crown and a throne even in death. He mourns for her, ever-so-slightly, but she does not need pity. She can talk, and he can hear her, but she is not permitted to move, forever carrying the weight of a crown and an empire on her shoulder even in death. And for only a few hours of the day, Hubert may go from his own binding chains—in the form of his own ivory statue in the great hall with her personal guard—and see her. But his duty as Imperial Minister is not done, not complete, and he longs for duty over devotion.

The tourists flock around the velvet rope that protects Edelgard from unholy, undeserving hands. They gaze upon her as the guide gives a half-assed spiel on her Imperial Highness, one that Hubert resents as per usual. But then again, it’s been many years since he heard someone speak of her with such vim and vigor, such adoration and emotion.

They never talk about her intelligence in tactics and emotion. Instead they always speak of her scholarly tactician and the distance she held everyone to. They never speak of her devotion to those around her, but always of her blind focus of her goal. And the worst, they never speak of the endless kindness that Lady Edelgard has. 

They only ever talk about her cutthroat resolve, her willingness to do anything, regardless of cost. They only speak of the resolve that drove her to Gronder Field, with Aymr in her hands and bringing it down upon her step brother’s head.

They don’t speak of the Emperor who coaxed a recluse from her room, who granted her safety by putting her abuser on house arrest.

They don’t speak of the Emperor who calmed and tempered a rambunctious soldier into a collected and focused general.

They don’t speak of the Emperor who sheltered and cared for a foreign princess, who tempered tricky relations between the Empire and archipelago of Brigid.

They don’t speak of the Emperor who woke a sleeping scholar from his depressive slumber, who gave him a library, funds and purpose in Crest research. 

They don’t speak of the Emperor who protected an orphan, who gave her a theatre and stage to sing upon. 

They don't speak of the Emperor who saw how cruelly fate had been to a second son; who offered him an escape from Faerghus.

They don’t speak of the Emperor who let her rightful enemy at the time walk free, and spared his ragtag group of soldiers. 

And they never speak of the Emperor who was manipulated, experimented upon, who was robbed of her own life; nor the minister who ran after her, and waited for her return for three long years, who blamed himself for not protecting his liege.

Hubert knows that the ruthless emperor bit is a tactic to keep ticket sales up. People want to learn about the crimson flower, the Emperor who brought down an oppressive system with her own two hands. Tourists and travellers would rather spend their money on something perverse, something controversial, rather than learning about an Emperor who was soft underneath her iron armour.

The people would rather hear about the so-called Saviour king in the north, where the old regions of Faerghus house their own museums on their own king and his duke, margrave and countess. Or go the west and learn of the enigmatic Duke who fled on the back of a wyvern in the night.  


The tourists get their look at Edelgard in her statue and then file through to the next room on the tour. The cleaning crew will be on their way through, then the security to monitor as they begin to open the doors to the ballroom for the museum’s newest money-grab: a party with a DJ to celebrate something called “halloween”.

Hubert supposes it is better than the museum going under and leaving their home to rust and fall apart; to become a haunted palace rather than a home. How sad it would be, to scare away teenagers from his own home, like some old, crusty man.

Hubert turns about the ballroom, watching as the cleaners begin to prepare for the night ahead. In some ways, life hasn’t changed much around the Imperial Palace. In the blink of an eye, he’s transported back, a full millennia, to his own time with the Emperor. When dozens of balls took place, and he watched over every single one, with the same stern gaze.

He loathed those days at the time, but now he misses them, in some strange way. Watching Edelgard dance with other men was as pleasurable as it was painful; the sight of her smiling face was indeed enough, but watching her dance away and knowing that he would never be able to hold her in the same way was painful. 

Time passes quickly now—the sense of it warped with over a millennia spent as a ghost—and slowly he hears the pounding sound of a drum, beating angrily as the workers begin to let in patrons. 

She’ll awaken any moment.

The ballroom begins to fill with the same, strange-faced and dressed tourists. And the music—which he has long since enjoyed—is now something obscene and loud and banal, with a bass that pounds so loud that it threatens to give him a ghostly headache.

With the call of the sunset on the helm, the countdown to Halloween’s end begins. A few hours until midnight, when all will become a distant memory and the winter will settle in for some time.

With a loud crash and bash of thunder and lightning, the windows shatter. It hurts no one, thank Sothis, but causes the patrons—namely those who are inebriated—to screech and holler over the music. Unseen to the mortal eyes, but Hubert can see her now. 

His emperor, his love, emerging from her ghostly throne. She is a vision in crimson, as ghostly as he. She takes gentle, lofty strides, passing through people and sending shivers down their spines as she moves towards him.

Instinctively, he holds out his arm and she takes it. “Hubert.”

“My lady?”

“Let us take a turn about the room, the patrons look most strange tonight.”

“Of course my lady.”

The two press off from the ground, levitating slightly over the heads of the patrons. With every step, they meet a head and send a shivering chill down the spine. A little fun for two ghosts on halloween night.

When Edelgard tires of that, they both disrupt the reverberations of the music, causing an uproar in the crowd. She also speaks in ghostly tongues before she tires of that too, and declares that her pantomime fun is over.

“What now my lady?” He asks, as they wander to the corner of the ballroom. The strange strobes light up Edelgard’s face with colours. She simply stares before looking to him.

“I want to dance.”

Hubert holds her gaze for a moment. With all his ability, he sends the thought to the DJ to change the next song to an older tune. He holds out his hand for her to take and the two pass through the locked doors of the ballroom to the balcony.

For a little added fun, the two make themselves visible to the human eye; but not before making sure the doors are unable to open. The two have always enjoyed halloween for it’s little oddities, its alluring mystery that lingers in the autumn air. And in an unspoken agreement, they would have rocked it had it been around in their time.

Edelgard traces the balcony, looking at the wilted flowers that decorate the railing. “A shame they don’t tend to the flowers better.”

“It is much colder this year.” He says in defence. ”They died off much too quickly.”

Edelgard glances over her shoulder. “Hm. A pity.”

“Would you like more planted my lady?” He asks.

“Why? You could not do anything Hubert, they would simply pass through your skin.”

He takes a step towards her. “It was simply a question my lady.”

Edelgard turns on her sole, the click of her heel carrying on the night air. She looks from Hubert and back down to the city below.

“Look how it’s changed.” Edelgard muses, her eyes tracing the cityscape. Manors and small castles have turned to high rises and hostels. Teahouses become chain cafes on every corner. Few things remain the same; one being the Mittelfrank Opera House in the distance, another being the von Aegir’s estate and the House of Parliament. 

He glances to Edelgard. “It is a world of your creation, my lady.”

“Indeed.” She whispers. “Though it could not have been realized until without the help of others.”

Through the glass of the balcony doors, sounds of an old song of years gone by. Hubert holds out his hand. “My lady, may I have the honour of this dance?”

Edelgard takes his hand. “The honour will be mine.”

Gingerly, Hubert pulls Edelgard to his chest, his other hand finding the small of her back, just where the cutout heart ends. With slow movements, he leads her in a slow, quiet waltz. 

“Do you ever regret following my path?” Edelgard asks.

“Not once.” He says. “It was an honour and privilege to fight for you, Lady Edelgard. And should you ask it, I would cut another bloody path without hesitation.”

Edelgard gives him a soft, almost sad smile. “Did you fight for me as your liege?” She asks. “Or as a friend?”

Hubert balks slightly. He swallows hard before taking in a small sigh. “My lady?”

“For I had wished you would fight for me as a friend. Perhaps more.” She says, holding his gaze intently. “And not out of duty.”

Had he been alive, Hubert would have certainly been blushing. “Nothing I have ever done has been out of duty, my lady.” He whispers before quickly adding. “It has all been due to unswerving devotion to you.”

“Has it?”

“In all sincerity, it has been.” He says. “My duty lies with Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg; and my devotion lies with...” he hesitates before gently sighing. “My devotion lies with my Edelgard.”

“ _ Your _ Edelgard?” She questions. “Whatever could you mean by that, Hubert?”

The smile on her face brightens, bordering on mischievous as he slowly twirls her. As she spins, he swiftly pulls her close to his chest. “Exactly what I imply.”

“I have never been one for reading between the lines.”

“Don’t I know that.” 

Edelgard drops her hand from his shoulder and grazes the side of his cheek. He feels nothing, not even her touch. No bones, no skin, no real matter means no sense of touch, no sense of her. 

“Will you kiss me, Hubert?” She asks. “And put duty over devotion into the past?”

Hubert holds her gaze. His hands drop from hers and from her cutout heart. Gingerly, he takes her face in his hands, raises her chin to his and slightly hesitates before kissing her as deeply as he can. 

He feels nothing.

When he parts from her, Edelgard is staring up at him with such a soft, tender look. A smile spreads across her ghostly lips. “I had been waiting a millennia for that.”

“Then allow me to mend those years.” He whispers.


End file.
